"We'll let the book go," he
said. "Come to-morrow. Come any time. I want to look into this. I want
to find out what's going on."
Leaving the office of the bicycle company John Van Moore ran along the
street past stores and houses. He did not try to follow the Marching
Men but ran forward blindly, filled with excitement. He remembered the
words of the newspaper man about the song of labour, and was drunk
with the thought that he had caught the swing of it. A hundred times
he had seen men pouring out of factory doors at the end of the day.
Always before they had been just a mass of individuals. Each had been
thinking of his own affairs and each man had shuffled off into his own
street and had been lost in the dim alleyways between the tall grimy
buildings. Now all of this was changed. The men did not shuffle off
alone but marched along the street shoulder to shoulder.
A lump came also into the throat of this man and he like that other by
the factory wall began to say words. "The song of labour is here. It
has begun to get itself sung!" he cried.
John Van Moore was beside himself. The face of the fat man pale with
terror came back into his mind. On the sidewalk before a grocery store
he stopped and shouted with delight. Then he began dancing wildly
about, startling a group of children who with fingers in their mouths
stood with staring eyes watching.
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